What's Your Favorite Color?
by Lil'MissGoodyTwoShoes
Summary: Many people have asked Molly Hooper what her favorite color was. But when the great Sherlock Holmes asks her, she is reluctant to answer.


**_Disclaimer_: **_I do not own the brilliance that is Sherlock Holmes._

_**A/N:** Oh, and if you would be so kind as to drop a review, it would be much appreciated!_

* * *

"What's your favorite color?"

It was one of those age-old questions everybody asked everybody else.

Most would say Pink or Purple, Blue or Green, Red or Yellow.

Others would say, Aqua, Indigo, Lavender, or Lime.

Very few people, people like Molly Hooper, never really had a definitive answer. _Their_ favorite color was best described using metaphors of grassy knolls and raging seas, or similes of the shining sun and the blooming flowers.

But, ever since she was little, _her_ answer had always been the same:

"The color of the glittering sea lapping at the sandy shore."

So, when one day, the infamous private detective Sherlock Holmes burst through the rickety doors of her morgue, the first thing she noticed was the color of his eyes.

Trapped within his swirling orbs were the cold crests of the Atlantic, the liquid sky on a bright spring day, an icy glacier treading its way down the rocky mountain side. Yes, looming in his iris' were the many blue wonders of the colorful world.

...

"Molly?"

"Hmmm?"

"What's your favorite color?"

The question surprised her. Sure, since The Fall Sherlock had indeed become more gentle, more compassionate, more _human_, but the last thing she was expecting was for him to ask her such an ordinary, such a _boring_, question.

"Uhhh...I'm not sure," she muttered, turning back to her ever-present stack of paperwork.

"Don't lie to me. You should have learned by now, you are indeed the most pathetic liar there ever was," he informed her, his tone admonishing.

"Right, well...it's kind of hard to explain," she told him, dodging yet another flying bullet.

"Do stop trying to avoid the question and just answer, won't you?"

"Fine."

Molly looked up from her stack of atrocious papers and peered at the curious consultant.

"It's...not really blue, but not really green either. It's a kind of mixture of the two. But, it's not aqua!" she added quickly.

(She hated it when people suggested that her favorite color was _aqua_! She couldn't stand the color!)

"It's more of an electric blue with hints of sea grass, and flecks of gold; much like the glittering sea lapping at the sandy shore."

"I see..." he murmured, seemingly deep in thought.

After a long pause, Molly blurted, "Well? what's your favorite color, then?"

"What? I don't have one," he quite vehemently informed her.

"Oh, come on! You must have a favorite color! Everyone has one!" she reasoned with him.

"Not everyone..."

"Sherlock!" she scolded him.

"Fine," he took a breath, "Mine, is quite a dull color. A boring old brown."

"Oh..." Molly breathed. Of course he'd caught on! He was the world's only consulting detective, the most brilliant man to ever live! For God's sakes, she should've seen that one coming!

"Now, a cup of coffee, please."

"O-of c-c-course..."

...

"You shouldn't stare, it's rude."

"How would _you_ know!? All you ever do is stare!"

"John told me once."

"Hmmm."

"Is there something you wanted?"

"Yes, there is, in fact."

"Out with it."

"That's not really your favorite color, is it?"

"Are you referring to the conversation we had _four months_ ago?"

"Yes, yes, I am."

He sighed, "No, it is not my favorite color."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed.

"Molly, it took you four months to come to such a conclusion!"

"Yes, Sherlock, slow to some, but quite a feat to others," she expressed to him, "So, what's your _real_ favorite color?"

Of course, _of_ _course_, she was greeted by a rather long stretch of silence.

"Pink?"

"Purple?"

"Red?"

"So, orange it is, huh?"

"No!" Sherlock leapt to his feet, his aggravated response coming as a surprise to her.

"No, it is not Pink or Purple, or Red, or Orange! In fact, it is a color that doesn't even exist!"

"Then how do you know it's your favorite color?"

"Because, Molly Hooper, I do not in fact, have a favorite color..." he admitted, his head stooped in defeat.

"O-oh...No worries. You don't have to have one!" She smiled brightly, "You know, my father never had a favorite color, either."

"Really?"

"Really."

"He just really liked _all_ the colors," she continued, "He never could pick just _one_..."

...

"Molly!"

"What do you need, Sherlock."

"A favorite color!"

"What!?"

"Oh, do keep up! I need a favorite color!"

"Now? Why?"

"Because! Just yesterday, my god-daughter asked me what my favorite color was, and I had no answer for her!"

"You seem tense. Are you tense?"

"Molly, focus!"

"Right, sorry! Now, what color do you like?"

"I don't know! That's why I'm asking for you help!"

"Why don't you just ask John?"

"Why won't you just help me?"

"John doesn't know you don't have a favorite color, does he?"

"No..." Sherlock muttered,"Now are you going to help me or not?"

"Yes, yes, I'll help you."

"Good. Now, where to we start?"

"Ummm...what part of London is your favorite?"

"Baker Street, obviously."

"'Kay. What color do you feel describes Baker Street?"

"Gray? The bricks are gray!"

"No, no, no. Each color has a different tone, a different mood."

"I suppose so..."

"Which one do you feel is the most like Baker Street?"

"Black for the drab London sky, Gold for the ornate living chairs, Burgundy for the overall glow of the flat, and...Blue for John, Purple for Mrs. Hudson, and Red for Mycroft."

"A-alright, now which one is your _favorite_?"

"All of them!"

"_Sherlock!_" she groaned, "Just pick one!"

"I can't!"

"Just make one up then!"

"Oh, alright!"

...

"I have decided on a favorite color!"

Molly was jolted awake by the slam of the heavy morgue doors and the grand exclaim of none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Wha?"

"Really Molly, do keep up!"

"Right, sorry." It seemed (to her atleast) that he was always telling her to 'keep up.' Of only her brain worked faster. But it didn't.

"What do you mean?"

"I have picked a color to call my 'favorite.'"

"Have you now?"

"Yes!"

"And which one has the honor of being chosen by the one and only consulting detective?"

"Why, purple of course!"

"I see. Now, I will be over here, finishing my little nap..."

Molly yawned for emphasis before burying her nose back under that cozy little corner of her elbow.

...

"_You always say_ _such horrible_ _things_. _Every_ _time_. _Always_. _Always...__"_

He did, didn't he? Funny, he hadn't even noticed until she'd said something. But she was right, she always was.

He supposed he ought to open her gift, to discover the treasure buried so neatly beneath the tissue.

Yes, he ought to.

So, he did.

He carefully tore open the wrapping paper, tossing the wrinkled garment aside, and brushed away the thin paper tucked around it.

And what he saw there, surprised him.

Folded in elegant ripples was a purple scarf, it feathered ends ruffled by the musty air.


End file.
